Thursday, April 17, 2008

what floor?

Living in LA, I've been getting used to parking structures. And valet parkers. And elevators.

At work I park 3 levels underground and have to take the elevator 9 floors up. And what I hate about elevators, even more than the possibility of getting stuck in one, is the stale air inside. I swear, there is better ventilation in a shoe box!

I seem to be fortunate enough to always be entering the elevator just as someone with the worst stench is exiting. Today it smelt like tangy B.O. and potatoes. Yesterday it smelt like a classroom of 6th grade, sweaty boys who just ran the mile and ate raw garlic cloves. Ask me tomorrow because there will be a brand new combination of funky smells to report.

So the elevator doors close and as I travel up to the next floor, I am crossing my fingers that no one gets on the elevator before I can get off. But of course, with my luck, a really cute business guy never fails to enter. And, although I want to casually say, "Hi, that smell isn't me by the way!", all I can seem to say is, "Hi, what floor?"